All About Evie

by Beth Ciotta

  “Can’t hear you well, love. What do you say we sit away from the speakers?”

  I recognized more than a few people as he led me to a table at the rear of the lounge. Several waved. I smiled and waved back, feeling a tad overdressed. Then again Sugar’s taste in fashion was faithfully over the top.

  Dress code for the evening was casual, but I’d glitzed up. A sparkly, clingy pink cocktail dress with a modest neckline and a plunging back. I’d applied dramatic makeup—smoky eye shadow, kohl liner, ebony mascara, shimmering blush and Sugar’s signature Cajun Crimson lipstick. Between my teased hair, high heels and short hemline, I almost looked leggy and tall. Overall, the look was va-va-voom sexy.

  Arch had taken one look and said, “Bollocks.”

  Yeah, baby, yeah.

  I’d had three things in the back of my mind when I glammed up. One: To bolster my confidence on the off chance Carol-the-witch Parker joined the festivities, equally spiffed up, trying to steal my thunder and my husband. Two: To wow Arch. I was seriously hoping to extend our one-night stand by a day or five. Three: I wanted to impress Gavin. If he was the little fish, I’d hook him and reel him in. If he was a straight-up cruise director, I’d put a bug in his ear—at some point—about hiring me on as an entertainer. A performer’s age was less of a factor on cruise ships. No sense in ignoring an alternative for the future.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about a six-month tour away from my friends, but I couldn’t ignore my unemployed status at home and my bolstered spirits here on the ship. It wasn’t merely the attraction to Arch, but the change of scenery, the positive atmosphere. Here everyone, passengers and crew, seemed happy.

  I could hear Nicole impersonating Madame Helene. Go to the happy place.

  I’d rather tag along with Arch.

  Evie Parish: Sidekick to an international spy.

  The dreamer in me wanted to pursue a future in espionage. I mean, they must utilize people like me from time to time, otherwise why was I here?

  The realist in me, which was really the ever-present voice of my mom, said, You’d better have something to fall back on. That’s why I wanted to impress Gavin, second-in-command regarding entertainment. At forty-one, I could no longer afford to ignore my mom’s sound—gag—advice.

  So basically, I was looking at this karaoke thing as an audition.

  Considering my last audition, you can see where I’d be a tad apprehensive.

  Arch and I settled at a four-seat table. He ordered a scotch, what else? I ordered a glass of vodka and cranberry. If I had to sing “Crazy” or “I Will Survive” for the eight-billionth time in my life, I needed inspiration. With any luck the alcohol would melt the knot in my stomach and provide a little false courage.

  Charles and I held hands and ad-libbed about remodeling his estate or possibly purchasing an apartment in Manhattan. He could work anywhere, he said. He emphasized the fact that he wanted me to be happy. The ruse.

  I thought about all the places, all the people we’d touched over the last couple of days with our fabricated tale. We’d been visible, friendly and open about our well-off status. Employees talk. No matter the department, gossip gets around. I know that from my years in the casino industry. Even if we hadn’t had optimum exposure to whomever Arch was after, surely the mark knew what we were about. Surely he’d pitch his deal in the next day or so. Maybe even tonight.

  The more I thought about it, the more my pulse raced. Or maybe that was because of the way Arch brushed his thumb back and forth across my hand. My breath caught when he wrapped one arm around me and leaned close. My eyes rolled back as he kissed my neck, nipped my lobe.

  “Listen close, love.”

  I had to listen hard because something was pounding in my ears. Oh. My heart.

  “If anyone approaches you with an exclusive opportunity, play along. But make it clear, I handle the finances, yeah?”

  Before I could respond, he kissed me. Slow, deep. So not fair, the way he could muddle my mind. I wanted the kiss to go on forever. I wanted to drag him off to a coat closet and rip off his prosthetics and clothes. No particular order.

  He eased away and my fantasies fizzled. I opened my eyes to find him leaning back in his seat, sipping scotch and watching me through those sepia-tinted glasses. He knew the effect he had on me. Damn him. I smiled as if to say, you’ll get yours. The roaring in my ears reduced enough to hear the DJ, Elliot, relaying the objective of the evening.

  “It’s easy,” he said. “Pick a song from the extensive list being passed about and I’ll call you up in the order that I receive the requests. Don’t worry if you don’t know the words. The lyrics will scroll across this television monitor. No fuss, all fun. It’s your night to shine!”

  I saw Gavin mingling with various passengers, handing out song lists and encouraging guests to sign up for a turn. I saw him coming my way, knew what was expected. Knew what I had to do. For Arch. For the greater good.

  For myself.

  Mental note: No matter what happens, don’t flash your boobs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  WHEN MILO ENTERED the Don Juan Lounge, Twinkie was leading a conga line, weaving through tables and encouraging patrons to join in. He guesstimated a good twenty had already grabbed on. The second in line was a stoop-shouldered geezer with a wide denture smile. He had plenty to smile about. He was gripping the hips of a devilishly cute woman with a knockout figure. Lucky bastard. The fact that she’d pickpocketed a man earlier today only increased Milo’s fascination. In spite of her deft technique, he was relatively certain she wasn’t a pro. What she was, was an enigma.

  A sparkly bloused grandma with curly yellow hair and cat-eye glasses stood onstage squinting at a monitor and belting out some Latin-Disco song—badly. Something about the rhythm getting you. It had certainly gotten Evie.

  He hadn’t realized he was staring until Gina elbowed him in the ribs. “There’s Charles,” she said, with a nod toward Arch.

  They made their way through a lounge that was growing more crowded by the minute. People who’d returned from their shore excursions, dropping in for a nightcap or a late night of dancing. The party, he’d read, went until 2:00 a.m.

  “Well, if it ain’t our friend, Dupont,” Milo drawled over the loud music. “Mind if me and the Mrs. join ya?”

  Arch-Charles straightened his ascot, motioned them into a seat. “How was San Juan?”

  “Festive. How’s your ankle?”

  “Better.”

  Milo sat across from Arch. Gina sat in between them.

  Arch smiled at her. “How was the shopping?”

  She shrugged. “No irresistible bargains.”

  “Unlike the gift shop’s duty-free perfume.”

  She matched Arch’s smile, a fake smile, and Milo felt like a voyeur at a bizarre chess game. Check. Checkmate. “How about you and Sugar?” he asked, breaking the tension. “Trip upon any deals here on the ship?”

  “Nothing special, no.”

  So they’d all struck out. Milo snagged a waitress. “Darlin’, couple of beers here. And another round for the Duponts.” Although they hadn’t been approached by the roper, he had touched base with Woody. The Kid, being the overenthusiastic whiz he was, had colored in a few grey areas. Wanting to drag Arch away for a private word, he glanced at his watch. Midnight. “How long you been here?”

  “Couple of hours.”

  He glanced at the conga queen. “She perform yet?”

  “Multiple times. The crowd loves her.”

  “I can see that.” Milo marveled at her energy, admired the deep cut of the back of her dress as she shimmied past, a train of people in tow. She blew a kiss at Arch, and Milo felt a tug of resentment. “Nice dress,” he commented dryly.

  Gina pushed out of her chair with a disgusted snort. “I’m going to the bar to see if they have any pretzels.”

  Milo sharpened his wits, turned back to his partner intending to persuade him to step outside. But then the song ended and the DJ made an
announcement. “Let’s have a round of applause for Martha!” The crowd responded kindly. But then he announced Sugar and the applause tripled. She took center stage, caressed the microphone and, in a breathless voice said, “This one’s for you, Charlie, baby.”

  Given her sex-kitten appearance, Milo half expected her to break into a Marilyn Monroe rendition of “Happy Birthday.” He sure as hell wasn’t prepared for Peggy Lee’s “Fever.”

  As soon as the bass line kicked in and Evie started singing, he scraped a hand over his jaw thinking, I’m toast. He wondered what Arch was thinking. After all, the sultry performance was directed at him.

  She was good. A little off-key in her upper range, but oddly it didn’t bother him. Her voice had character. A husky alto, far and away from her high-pitched speaking voice, her rich tone rivaled that of Diana Krall, one of Milo’s contemporary favorites. But it was something else, something beyond her singing. Charisma? He couldn’t pinpoint it exactly but she stirred him.

  Instead of making love to the camera, as they say, she made love to Arch. But it was Milo and Mr. Happy who felt the effects. Damn.

  The song ended and he sat there, stunned. Everyone else applauded. Sugar stepped off the stage, her eyes on Arch, but the old woman, Martha, hugged her and pulled her onto the crowded dance floor. The DJ had launched into “Y.M.C.A.” and Sugar, party girl extraordinaire, was now spelling letters out with her arms.

  He couldn’t believe it. He was almost willing to endure The Village People to watch Twinkie dance. He downed his beer, stood. “I need some fresh air.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  He and Arch were nearly to the front entrance when they ran into Gina. She was carrying a bowl of party mix and smirking at the dance floor. “Quite the performance.”

  “Keep an eye on her,” Milo said.

  “Gee, I thought you’d never ask.”

  OKAY. THIS SUCKED. I’d planned to return to our table, to snuggle down on Arch’s lap to see if his beast had responded to my call of the wild. I knew I was hot to trot. The fact that Elliot had had “Fever” in his collection, the song Sugar supposedly sang in Vegas the night Charles first spotted her, seemed serendipitous to my seduction. Instead of snuggling with Arch, I was dancing with Martha, participating in a choreographed song that I disliked as much as “The Chicken Dance.” But I couldn’t say no to Martha, and Gavin was watching. He’d been watching all night.

  I’m not bragging—okay, that’s a lie—but I’m pretty sure I’d snagged his interest. The Motown hit “My Guy” had been a calculated pick, a guaranteed crowd pleaser, and something I could ham up for my husband. Couples flocked to the dance floor, and the enthusiastic applause that came after jolted my system like a drug. The familiar rush propelled me through the next two hours, although I’d had to kick off my skyscraper heels a few times.

  It had seemed only natural to start the conga line when Martha launched into “Rhythm is Gonna Get You.” It’s what I get paid to do at home—initiate and perpetuate fun. Arch had hired me to be the life of the party and since I’m anal about my work…If Gavin didn’t hire me as a singer or a party motivator, maybe he’d hire me as an assistant because I’d darn well proven I could create excitement and fun! Maybe I could fill Julie McCoy’s canvas shoes after all. At least the thought of being a cruise director didn’t make my eye twitch and my stomach spasm.

  I’d still rather be a sidekick to a spy, but at least I had backup. Maybe. If Gavin did offer me a job, I’d have to explain my “Sugar” ruse. I’d cross that bridge if I came to it.

  Elliot segued into Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls” and I explained to Martha that I really needed to get back to Charlie. She boogied over to her friends, but before I could boogie off anywhere, Fred nabbed my hand and reeled me in.

  “You promised me a dance, yes?”

  Crap. “You bet, Freddie, baby. You know how to hustle?”

  “It is,” he said with a dazzling smile, “my specialty.”

  Even though the balls of my feet were cramping, I allowed him to lead me into the seventies dance. It’s not that I wanted to dance, although I do love to hustle, but there loomed the chance that he was the man Arch was after. My pulse raced as he glided and spun me around the floor, and it had little to do with physical exertion. Although three minutes into it, I was sweating big-time. Keeping up with his moves was a challenge. The man was a champion hustler.

  “We make a good team,” he said.

  “Uh-huh,” I managed, because at this point I was breathless—from dancing, not because he was looking at me all, well, Don Juan-like.

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  Uh-oh. “I’m all ears.”

  “Not here. It’s too loud.”

  Before I knew it, he was hustling me toward the door. I glanced anxiously in Arch’s direction, only he wasn’t there. Ms. Tall, Dark and Beautiful, of all people, was sitting at our table, conversing with Martha’s young and handsome dance partner. Tex was nowhere in sight.

  I told myself to focus as Fred guided me through an alternate exit. Stay in character. Play along and remember, Charlie makes all the financial decisions. Check.

  If the guy got fresh, well, Sugar would slug him. Double check.

  MILO WAITED UNTIL he and Arch were outside, alone on deck, before he slipped out of Vic’s accent. “I talked to Woody,” he said at a volume considerably lower than that of his Texan alter ego.

  They stood side by side, leaning against the rail and staring out at the twinkling lights of San Juan. In less than an hour the ship would set sail for St. Thomas. Arch shoved his tinted glasses to the top of his silver head, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did he win Kara back yet?”

  “The only thing he’s won lately is an award for most obnoxious cologne.”

  “As long as it doesn’t smell like jasmine.”

  “Aren’t you allergic—”

  “Yeah. So what did The Kid have to say?”

  “He did a background check on Evie Parish.”

  “I didnae tell you her last name.”

  “I snapped a digital shot of her this morning. You take it from there.”

  Arch glanced up at the stars, seemingly unruffled. “So, let me guess. No criminal record. Not even a speeding ticket, yeah?”

  “A real Shirley Temple.” Milo pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket—a handmade Cuban he’d purchased on the sly in Old San Juan—and lit up. He hadn’t smoked in years, but tonight he succumbed to the guilty pleasure, thinking there were worse things. Like lusting after his partner’s unexpected glitch. “So where did she learn how to pick pockets?”

  He glanced sideways. “You saw?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m the only one. Everyone else in the theater was distracted, including you. Lucas didn’t feel a thing. She’s good. So good that she’s never been caught.”

  “She’s not a pro.”

  “So what gives?”

  “Learned it from a magician. She worked as his temporary assistant for a while. The Dip was part of the act.”

  “No shit.” He processed. “So you knew this and asked her to lift Lucas’s wallet?”

  He shook his head. “Didn’t know until after. She thought it might help in establishing whether or not the man’s our roper.”

  “You told her—”

  “Very little. But what I do say sticks.” He blew out a breath. “She memorized Sugar’s profile after one hearing. And other things…Possible she has an eidetic memory.”

  “Total recall?”

  “Or close to it.” Arch angled his head. “She’s more of a glitch than I first anticipated.”

  “How so?” When he didn’t answer, Milo took another route. “Why didn’t you tell me she’s married to Michael Stone?”

  “Was married. They’re divorced.”

  Per Arch’s referral, they’d used the entertainment agent to book two dozen shills for a sting up in Newark several months back. Operating on a standard need-to-know, the actors had been sh
ielded from the true nature of the “gig” as well as the true identity of their employer. Milo had only dealt with Stone on the phone, but had formed an immediate opinion of his character. “Stone’s an ass.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So why are you dealing with him?”

  “That’s my business, yeah?” He replaced his glasses, looked over his shoulder. “I want to get back to Evie. Let’s wrap.”

  “I want to know about Simon Lamont. Who is he to you?” When he remained tight-lipped, Milo pushed. “Gina and I are putting our asses on the line for you. If A.I.A—”

  “Screw the Agency. If you really want to go after the scum-artists, go freelance.”

  “Career advice from a man who should be serving time. Huh.” Used to Arch tap-dancing around a subject until you’d forgotten your original question, Milo pressed. “What’s your beef with Lamont?”

  “You’re not going to leave go, are you, mate?”

  “No.”

  Arch worked his jaw, blew out a breath. “He lured a respected associate oot of retirement to work a forgery scam. When the artist delivered the goods, Lamont reneged on the price. This artist, my…friend, was old school, stood up to Lamont on principle. Don’t cheat a cheater, yeah? Someone silenced his protests. Permanently.”

  Fuck. “Lamont?”

  “Or hired muscle. I’m not clear on specifics, only the circumstances. Because of Lamont, a good man is dead.”

  Milo rubbed the back of his neck. “A man you cared about.”

  “Aye.”

  He sighed. “So because of that personal debacle you believe Ms. Benson’s claim that Lamont and his muscle were responsible for her grandfather’s heart attack.”

  “Do I think they could have scared a frail, frustrated man to death through intimidation? You bet.”

  “Earlier you said Simon Lamont is an alias.”